


My First Concern

by Linguam



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Episode 1x03: Commodities, Gen, Haunted!Athos, Hurt!Aramis, Hurt!Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, Medic!Aramis, Spoilers if you haven't seen the episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguam/pseuds/Linguam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from 1x03 Commodities. Aramis doesn't escape the ambush quite as unscathed as he did on the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My First Concern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doomcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/gifts).



> It would seem I'm somewhat of a one-trick pony, wouldn't it? I honestly wasn't even considering to write a new story; as a matter of fact, I had firmly told myself to focus on the ones I already have in the making, but then I got stuck and turned to YouTube and found the wonderful video Clarity // Porthos & Aramis (if you haven't seen it, I strongly advice you to do so), and voilà. This happened. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> I'm gifting this to doomcake, because I'm convinced her story "Hoy por ti, mañana por mí" provided the basis for my inspiration. So thank you!

He doesn’t notice it until he’s halfway through stitching Porthos’ shoulder back together, when the adrenaline is starting to wear off, and even then he pays it little mind. After all, there are more important things to do and it is nothing more than a dull, albeit irritating, ache.

 _A chain_ , his mind supplies as his hands work, and the image of a thug swinging metal shackles enters his mind before quietly floating away. It feels as though his back has been the chewing toy of some deeply enraged beast, but he’ll live – which is more than he can say for Porthos if he doesn’t close this wound.

It’s far from the worst he’s seen; now that they got the bleeding under control and he can examine it clearly, it really doesn’t even enter his top ten, but Aramis knows better than most that sometimes, it’s the less serious wounds that will kill you.

d’Artagnan has returned to stand by the door, arms crossed over his chest and eyes darting from the happenings on the wooden table to the chair where Bonnaire is sitting – the privateer pointedly not looking at his fine needle work. He supposes he should feel offended but can’t really find it in him to jest about it. Athos disappeared when it was clear he was no longer needed to render their brother unconscious, Bonnaire’s bottle of whatever liquor it contained firmly clutched in his hand. There was something going on there but, as with the pain in his back, Aramis resorts to take care of it later.

He makes his last stitch with practiced ease and smiles a little at the neatly sewn sutures. It will leave a small scar, but he doubts Porthos will mind.

He removes the needle and washes his hands before beginning the bandaging. Every movement aggravates his back and he can feel nausea building in the back of his throat. He forces air into his lungs, breaths deep and steady, and continues with his work.

When the wound is dressed to his satisfaction, he lets his hand linger on the back of Porthos’ neck for a moment, relishing in the warmth of it, before setting with cleaning his tools and hands again. 

“Will he be alright?” Their young Gascon sounds steady enough but as Aramis glances up to look at him, he can see the ill-hidden worry in his brother’s eyes, and that’s when he remembers that d’Artagnan has never seen any of them seriously hurt before.

Aramis gives him a reassuring smile.

“Given he doesn’t develop a fever, he will be fine in the morning, though in a great deal of pain.”

d’Artagnan nods, as if what Aramis just told him is exactly what he had suspected.

“And what should we do now?”

“Make ourselves comfortable,” Aramis answers cheerfully. “I would assume this room will be where we spend the night, and I for one don’t wish to freeze tonight so I suggest you go find Athos and some wood for that fire place.”

d’Artagnan’s eyes narrow slightly but he doesn’t say anything, just throws one last look at their unconscious brother before exiting the room.

Bonnaire shuffles in his chair.

“I don’t suppose I am allowed to leave, too?” he says, his defeated tone making an answer redundant and so Aramis only quirks his lips at him. The privateer sighs and produces some papers from his bag, hunching over them at the table he’s sitting by, soon lost in his work.

Aramis returns his attention to Porthos, a hand coming up to touch his cheek. Pleased there is no sign of fever, he sends a quick prayer of thanks to God and runs a hand through his friend’s curls. Aramis knows from experience that Porthos will remain unconscious for hours yet and he is secretly glad: given the position of the wound, it will be quite painful for the next few days.

The thought once again draws his attention to his own aches, and it isn’t without effort that he eases himself into a chair at the end of the table. He can feel the swelling of his skin, the bruising of muscles, and he thinks of a salve he has in his bags that would ease his discomfort. But with both Athos and d’Artagnan absent, he dismisses the thought. After all, he doesn’t really need it. He’s confident that nothing is broken, and the lack of wetness tells him the chain did not break his skin. He’ll be sore for a few days, but he can handle it.  


###### 

He had known riding would be uncomfortable, but he had also figured that since they would keep a slow pace for Porthos’ sake, it shouldn’t be too bad. But then, he hadn’t taken the reappearance of Maria Bonnaire and a subsequent chase through the forest, plus an encounter with Spanish agents, into consideration. By the time they return to the villa, Bonnaire recaptured and his wife dead, and he stands stitching Porthos’ shoulder – again – Aramis’ back feels _raw_. Every brush of fabric against his skin feels like a punch, every breeze of wind like needles severing his nerves.

Still he ignores it, because he knows there is nothing to be done about it, and he doesn’t need the others worrying. He is successful enough for his brothers not to notice: Athos is too haunted by this place and disappeared a long time ago, and d’Artagnan is stuck on Bonnaire duty in another room – considering the confrontation that had taken place when they had returned, it seemed the most sensible solution. It’s only Aramis and Porthos in the living room, and his brother is in too much pain to detect the slight stiffness in his stance, the barely conceived limitation to his movements.

He finishes wrapping Porthos’ shoulder and then gives his friend a gentle pat on the back.

“There you go, all done. I think you are improving, we didn’t even have to punch you this time.”

Porthos grumbles something incomprehensible, but Aramis catches just enough to grin.

“No need to be rude, my friend. You know it is as much for our benefit as for your own.”

“I’ll still punch you in the face next time,” Porthos mutters as he slowly works himself up to a sitting position. His eyes are glazed with pain and there is a slight tremor running through his body.

Aramis puts a hand on his neck and gives it a squeeze, before turning to put away his instruments.

“Or how about we don’t make a habit of pulling my stitches? After all, I have a reputation as a fine seamstress to maintain.”

Porthos snorts, but Aramis can see the beginnings of a smirk pull at his lips.

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that.” After a moment, he adds, “Thanks.”

He leans forward and though he’s probably aiming for Aramis’ upper back, fatigue and pain makes Porthos’ aim slightly off and he hits low. There is no real force behind it, it is really no more than a gentle touch, but Aramis still can’t stifle the hiss that accompanies the white-hot agony it evokes. Every muscle in his body goes rigid, and he grasps the table to keep himself upright.

“Oi! You alright?” Porthos asks, worry battling the pain in his eyes. He’s standing right next to him – Aramis has no recollection of even hearing him move – free arm slightly raised as if wanting to touch him but unwilling to cause any further harm.

Aramis blinks around the dark dots dancing in his vision, and takes a steadying breath to force the bile down his throat.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice only slightly breathless, and quickly continues when Porthos raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him, “Just sore. It’s nothing.”

Porthos huffs.

“Now why don’t I believe that?” He turns his head towards the door and shouts, “Athos!”

Aramis’ head snaps all the way up and he straightens instinctively, though the motion does nothing to alleviate the fire flaring across his back. He can feel Porthos’ hand on his arm, steadying him when the room tilts before his eyes, and it takes a few deep, deliberate breaths before he trusts himself to speak.

“There is no need to disturb him,” he says evenly. “He has enough to deal with as it is. I’m fine.”

“You’re an idiot,” Porthos mutters, just as Athos appears in the doorway with a bottle in his hand and looking more somber than Aramis has ever seen him.

“You called?” he says wryly, tone dripping of sarcasm though without any of its usual humour.

“Aramis’s hurt,” Porthos says, ever blunt.

Athos turns his attention to the marksman, who rolls his eyes.

“And Porthos is exaggerating. As I have already told him, I’m fine.”

Athos raises an unconvinced eyebrow at him.

“Being familiar with your definition of ‘fine’, I’m sure you will forgive us for not finding that particularly reassuring.”

He turns to Porthos without giving Aramis any time to respond.

“Where?”

“Lower back.”

Athos frowns.

“When?” he asks, when he obviously fails to recall the incident it occurred.

Porthos shrugs with his good shoulder.

“Dunno. Didn’t notice it ‘til now.”

“You are aware that I am still here?” Aramis says dryly. “I am perfectly capable of answering for myself.”

Athos gives him an even look.

“And I would ask your opinion, if I believed you were going to answer truthfully,” he says, gesturing to Aramis to remove his shirt.

Aramis rolls his eyes again but complies. He turns his back towards them and inches his shirt up, not trusting he’s actually capable of removing it completely without falling face first to the floor.

He hears Porthos hiss and can only imagine how it must look: red, puffy, and in all nuances of purple.

“It’s really not that bad,” he insists, though he can feel his back pulsating with every beat of his heart.

“Clearly, you have not seen the state of it,” Athos says coolly. “When did it happen?”

“During the ambush. One of them had a chain. It was very impressive.”

“Looks like a horse trampled you over,” Porthos murmurs, and Aramis hisses when fingers brush over the bruised area.

“Could you _not_ touch it?” he forces out through gritted teeth.

“Sorry.”

Athos sighs, as if their mere presence is a personal insult, and Aramis jerks his head towards the side table before their de facto leader can properly start rebuking them.

“There is a salve in my bag,” he says, “chamomile. It should lessen the swelling.”

While Athos shuffles around behind him, words such as, “foolish” and, “reckless” and, “someone so experienced with medical practice should know better” occasionally falling from his lips, Aramis directs himself towards the table Porthos had previously occupied and leans over it, elbows supporting his weight since his hands are still holding onto the fabric of his shirt. Porthos stands silent by his side, leaning against the table.

“So,” Athos says as he moves closer, apparently having found the balm, “what reason did you have for keeping your injuries from us this time, then?”

Aramis huffs, but before he can answer his back starts _burning_ and he promptly dismisses the idea of opening his mouth for the next few seconds; he’s not sure what will come out. Athos is gentle, he knows his friend would never cause him deliberate harm, but his back is so raw Athos might as well be pushing the salve into his spine with a rake.

“Aramis?”

Thankfully, chamomile works quickly. Aramis’ jaw hurts from how hard he bites down and with the initial burning beginning to subside and paving way for soothing coolness, he forces himself to relax and releases a long breath.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles. His voice is suspiciously rough and he clears his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are,” Athos says impassively.

Aramis sighs.

“What do you want me to say? Did I deliberately keep this from you? Yes, because like I said, it’s not that bad. And there was no time…”

“Then we make time,” Athos interrupts, and suddenly he is standing in front of Aramis, his blue eyes penetrating even in the sparse evening light, “and we don’t let things fester. You of all people should know that.”

“There was nothing _to_ fester,” Aramis objects tiredly. The sharp throb in his back has withdrawn into a dull, bearable ache, and now he just wants to sleep. “It didn’t even break the skin.”

However, Athos apparently seems intent on lecturing him.

“That is not the point,” he says, sounding as worn-out as Aramis feels.

“Then what is?”

“The point,” Porthos intervenes, “is that you should’ve _told us_. We don’t keep things like this from each other.”

Aramis blinks at him, and then looks back at Athos who sternly meets his gaze, but before he can answer that he just didn’t think it _important_ enough to bother them with – he was _fine_ – there is a ruffling sound from one of the adjoining rooms.

“Everything alright in there?”

“There is no need for concern,” Athos responds calmly. He adds, before d’Artagnan poses the question that is deemed to follow, “It is only Aramis being a negligent fool, as always.”

They can all hear the frown in the answering, “Alright…” but the Gascon doesn’t enter the room, seemingly confident that they will work it out.

Aramis raises an eyebrow at Athos as Porthos chuckles beside him – _“negligent fool,” really?_ – but he only gets a minute shrug – _you can hardly deny what is so obviously true_ – in response.

Aramis sighs, though he can feel a smile tugging at his lips, and dips his head in acknowledgement.

Athos studies him, seemingly waiting for some sort of vocal assurance that this won’t continue to be a common occurrence, but Aramis only gives him an innocuous smile. After all, he only makes promises that he knows he can keep.

Athos eventually shakes his head and exhales through his nose; though he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by the response – or rather, lack thereof.

“You are incorrigible.” He lets his eyes wander between the two of them, “If you two are quite capable of handling your own, I will take my leave.”

Aramis rolls his eyes but decides that it’s probably in his best interest not to say anything, or ask his friend what he plans on doing. Taking in his overall disheveled appearance and the slight redness of his eyes, it seems rather obvious how he intends to spend the night.

Athos gives them both another appraising look before nodding – more in defeat than in confidence that they can actually take care of themselves, Aramis has no doubt – and turns, rather abruptly.

“Get some rest,” he throws gruffly over his shoulder. “We leave at first light.”

Aramis watches their brother’s retreating back and frowns.

“He is hiding something…” he mumbles, when Athos has disappeared out of sight.

Porthos scoffs.

“You’re one to talk.”

Aramis glowers at him, but there’s no heat behind it; he is far too tired for it.

“Come on then,” he says, straightening and placing a hand on his friend’s uninjured shoulder. “You heard our fearless leader. Let’s get you to the couch.”

“Can walk…” Porthos mutters, though he allows Aramis to lead him over to the somewhat dusty sofa. He slides down and grunts, eyes pinched shut and forehead creased. Aramis pats him on the arm and goes to retrieve the bottle Athos left behind – or more likely forgot in his haste to flee whatever memories this place brings him.

“Here, drink,” Aramis says, offering Porthos the bottle. “Doctor’s orders.”

Porthos takes the bottle and downs a couple of mouthfuls. He gives it back, sighing contentedly, and Aramis hesitates only a moment before taking a swallow himself; it burns in his mouth and throat.

He makes his way over to the chair he’d occupied the previous day and gingerly lowers himself into it, relieved when it only elicits minor protests from his back. He leans back with a satisfied sigh and closes his eyes. The night will unlikely be particularly comfortable, he muses absently, but he feels tired enough that he can sleep most anywhere.

There’s shuffling on the couch and although Aramis doesn’t open his eyes, he knows Porthos is watching him.

“Yes, Porthos?” he asks, amused.

“You gonna be okay over there?”

He forces his eyes open and meets two dark pools of genuine concern, quite noticeably only kept open by sheer force of will, and relief suddenly washes over him. Aramis hadn’t really considered the possibility of losing him – the thought had lurked in the back of his mind, of course, as it always did when any of his brothers suffered an injury; he fears the day his skill with a needle will not be enough to save them like no other. Still, there had been little time for thinking and now he just feels grateful that he doesn’t have to wonder what life would have been like without Porthos’ steady presence by his side.

He smiles and leans his head back against the wall, eyes falling shut.

“Sleep, Porthos.”

A grunt is his only response, though Aramis hears him shift on the sofa and his smile widens.

Silence settles after that, enclosing itself around them like a blanket and interrupted only by the occasional creaking of the timeworn house and the careful rustling of trees outside. Previous incidents aside, this is far from the worst sleeping arrangements they’ve had, Aramis thinks drowsily, and sinks deeper into the chair. It isn’t long until Porthos’ deep breathing joins the lonely tune of the wind, effectively lulling him to sleep.  


**Author's Note:**

> This was produced rather quickly (at least, by my standards) so I apologize for any possible typos and other errors.
> 
> If you have a minute to spare, comments make me happy :)
> 
> /Linguam


End file.
